Nancy Boy
by za
Summary: He's so pure, so innocent...Ray just can't take his mind off Arthur. Part five and it's complete!
1. Nancy Boy

Title: Nancy Boy

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most namely not me. The title for this comes from Placebo's song of the same name, as do the lyrics. I'm just a poor teenager not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles.

Author's Notes: Let me say first and foremost that I love the Flaming Creatures. All kinds of cool. Hence: this. You know you saw Ray give Arthur the eye. And they'd be just so damn hot together. I'd like to continue this, but I need advice about where it should go, and how to get there. Any ideas?

Warnings: It's all kinds of dark. Also: sexual content.

Dedication: for Katy. Yes, I'll marry you.

***

**kind of buzz that lasts for days**

**had some help from insect ways**

**comes across all shy and coy**

**just another nancy boy**

He catches your eye because he's different, isn't he? His hair its natural brown, his pale complection uncaked by powder or makeup, in that woolley vest, the huge jumper to keep him warm. You'd laugh, wouldn't you, if not for that sweet, naive expression of pure enjoyment on his face, for the way he bobs his head to the music, clearly enjoying the bop. He doesn't dance, though, a sure sign that he feels out of place - and he certainly looks it. He's not trampy, like the rest of them.

Like you.

And you like it.

You adore being trashy - there's a sort of freedom in it, in being a libertine. You can shag whomever you like, wear as much makeup as will fit on your face, whichever clothing you fancy, take any drug that comes your way. It's a sort of freedom you enjoy, and it works for you, doesn't it?

But he's different.

Just the way he moves through the crowd, with a look of awe, as if the other people weren't there. Like Moses - the audience just parts for him, though not one of them acknowledges his presence. He's just...something else, entirely.

And he's looking at you.

He's not focused on Pearl's huge hair, which almost always catches the eye, nor on Billy's closed eyes and sexy, half-parted lips as he bangs away at the drums. He's not focused on Malcolm, who gets most of the guys and chicks, just for being the lead, short, and as sexy as the rest of them put together. But as focused as you are on him, he is on you, on your gaudy lips and porcelain face, and the way your carmel hair flies upward into a perfectly held-together coiff.

He's still staring at you - your slender fingers cycling over the cords, your heavily-lidded eyes, your smile. And you blow him a kiss - it's a moment, and you regret it suddenly. But then he smiles back. The sweetest, warmest smile you've ever seen.

A lonely smile.

He has nowhere to go.

Later: you can tell he's entranced through the openness in his face. His eyes are wide as he sips his pint, those thin - luscious! - lips parting, closing, and the throat swallowing. You try to play it off cool, to keep up the cynical banter with the rest of the Creatures, but you would love to slip your foot slowly - as slowly as you know how, to tease him - up his virginal leg.

You don't think he's slept with another man, and you become quickly enamored of that thought, of the idea of unexplored territory, of a pure, chaste conquest.

From the look on his face, he wouldn't argue.

"I don't believe there is much of a future to speak of," Malcolm's explaining, gesturing with his fag, waving the lit end about in a rather dangerous fashion.

"We're in a bit of a decadent spiral, aren't we?" Pearl picks up. Those two were always of the same mind, even when you were giving it to one or the other every night. You should've known they'd take up together, and you're happy for them, really, you are. Honest.

"And sinking fast," Billy adds, finishing his pint in a quick gulp. And then he's looking at you, and you don't know what to say, do you? It's that moment you've been dreading, when you might have to say something reasonably intelligent. Don't look at this boy too closely, you tell yourself. Don't think too much about it; what would you say if he weren't here? If it were someone else, someone who didn't have that saintly air about them?

"Big brother baby, all the way," its popped out of your mouth and gone now - not that you regret that. It was close enough to clever, and certainly true and relevant to the topic.

No, what you regret is that the moment the words are out of your mouth, you find yourself glancing down at his crotch, as if measuring him up. Wondering how big it is. You force your eyes up and smile as gently as you can at him, not realizing that with your trashy makeup - your favorite makeup - you look like an aging whore, grinning at a chaste young lad - something that you could, in fact, pull off quite easily.

And then Malcolm, always the center of attention and high on speed, is off and running at the mouth again. "Which why we prefer impressions to ideas -"

Then Billy, "Sitatuations to subjects."

"Brief flights to...sustained ones," from Pearl.

"Exceptions to types." You realize you've joined them, nearly ganging up on the poor boy, without even thinking about it, just continuing the dogma of the Flaming Creatures, without even thinking. And you see it, the absurdity of the four of you, when, in response to Pearl's "And you," he merely says, looking frightened,

"I'm just looking for a room at the moment."

He's in the (formerly) spare room, and you find yourself walking up and down the hall, as if he might stop putting his things away to speak to you. You go from your room to the bathroom, remove your makeup, go back to your room. You change into something slightly more comfortable, go from your room to the kitchen, where Malcolm and Billy and Pearl and finishing a bottle of wine before bed. You fill the kettle, set it on the stove, light the gas, go back to your room. You're sitting there, thinking, psyching yourself up. You go back to the kitchen - the others have cleared out, but left the lamp on for you, and you take out a mug from the cabinet, place a teabag in it. You swallow, take a deep breath, and hurry to his room.

Although the door's open, his back is turned as he puts some clothing in the closet, so you knock softly on the doorjamb. He turns quickly, almost nervously, then smiles his soft grin at you. You smile back, suddenly all teeth and long limbs.

"I was making a cup of tea. Would you...do you...you want some?" You're cursing yourself for the awkwardness in your question, but he smiles again and nods his assent. You find yourself grinning, almost stupidly, and bounding off to the kitchen, to take another mug and teabag, and pour the boiling water into both cups. You set the kettle back on the cooling burner and lift both of the hot cups, then carry them back to his room.

You hand one to him and he sets it on the antique dresser as he pulls his records out of a box and sets them down. He rifles through them quickly, then pulls one out and places the record gently on the player. He gently places the stylus on the spinning black disk, and after a moment, one of Brian Slade's early songs wafts out.

You've been standing there this whole time, watching his delicate movements, loath to leave now that you feel you've gotten so close to him and his innocent perfection. Your tea is steeped, and you remove your teabag from the mug, then take his bag and yours back to the rubbishbin in the kitchen, where you dispose of them before going back to his room to lean your long frame against the door.

But he doesn't notice you, and finally, you give up and leave. 


	2. Personality Crisis

Title: Personality Crisis (Part Two of Nancy Boy)

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, and plotlines belong to historyÉI mean, Todd Haynes, Michael Stipe, and the rest of those crazy kids. The song "Personality Crisis," which is featured in the film is the source of the lyrics. I'm making no money off this (at least, not that I know of), nor do I get credit for any of that stuff. Suing me will accomplish nothing. So there. :P

Author's Notes: From Arthur's point of view this time, so we can get his idea of how things are going, etc. Enjoy.

Warnings: None. It's clean!

Dedication: for Katy. Kisses.

***

**but now frustration and heartache is what you got**

**(that's why they talk about personality)**

**but now your tryin to be some no you got to do some**

**wanna be someone who cow wow wows**

**but you think about the times you did, they took every ounce**

The bulk of you your narrow hips and flat stomach, the curves of your legs are hidden behind the pillow you've taken from his bed, wrapped around it like gift paper. Your long arms hold it in place against your torso, against the itchiness of the wool sweater your mum knit you a couple years ago too short now, it shows your flat stomach if you lift your arms above your shoulders. You know your flesh teases him and, unused to having such an effect on another person, especially another very attractive man, you do it often to see the slight blush that races over his cheeks when he looks at you.

There's something frightening in that delicious power, and you're uncertain that you should be using it so lightly so now that you're alone with him again, for the first time in two weeks since you moved here you hold the pillow over your chest, to hide what you know he'd otherwise glance at constantly, and you'd feel tempted to bare.

He's smoking a cigarette, and very delicately looking everywhere in his room but at you, his eyes roving over a collaged cigar box, books and records, posters, as if this were not his room but an intricately made copy, and he were searching for flaws. You're tempted to crawl towards him over the bed, pushing back the rumpled coverlet, to lay one of your virginal hands on his thigh, to tempt him further.

But that's as far as the vision you have of it goes. After he kisses you something that even then begins to lose clarity, as you speculate whether his lips would be soft or unyielding, supple or chapped you don't know what would happen next. Suburban life with mum and dad never prepared you for this. And Ray is no help; he's clearly as nervous as you are he simply doesn't know what he's allowed or where the boundaries are.

Then again, so are you, and for the same reasons.

You don't know anything past the fact that you'd like to kiss him if he would to kiss you, touch you, hold youÉ You wish you could infer something, but the simple truth is that aside from that one blown kiss, the jumpy way he behaves around you, and how kind he's been, you have nothing to make you think he might want you.

He might just enjoy being kind to a poor young man, kicked out by his parents and new to the city (oh Arthur, look harder!).

He might just be jumpy from doing too many different drugs too close together, from too much cocaine, too much caffeine (oh please, please, just ask him!).

"D'you think," Ray's voice interrupts your silly thoughts, casting them aside like Moses and the Red Sea, and you turn your head quickly to face him. He pauses, then starts again. "D'you thinkÉ" a pause that makes you nearly pant with desire to hear the unspoken question, and then he begins a third time, letting all the words out in a rush. "Would you like me to do your makeup before we go out tonight?"

You needn't think about that at all. You've always loved makeup. You've wanted, from a young age, rather desperately to wear it, but your dad didn't let your mum keep any, as if that would stamp the fairy out of you. You can think quite quickly of other times he tried to deny you yourself a doll you wanted as a young child that he wouldn't let you have, the times he forced you to go to football practices when all you really wanted to do was stay home and color, the time he took all your stuffed animals and burned them in the yard because, as he put it, you were "tae claos tae them fer eny li'l buy."

You nod to Ray, and he takes your hand a faint tingle passing from him to you as he connects with you, sending a single shiver down your spine and leads you to his vanity, seating you in the delicate, curved-backed chair. You sit, uncomfortable in the delicate thing, and wait as he opens his huge makeup box, revealing lacy whites and thick pinks, violent purples and blues pale like veins. Rouges to smear over your lips and cheeks, shadows for your eyes above heavy liner, and glitter, iridescent in the dim light of his room. You can't help a feeling of awe spreading over you at the unveiling of these cosmetics, like a sacred token, and a small gasp comes out of your mouth.

"You like them?" Ray is grinning now, actually proud, and able to speak without pausing to feel silly or embarrassed, but neither of you notices it for a moment and he pulls out the powder concealer, explaining to you what he'll be doing as he mixes a color that's right for your skin tone.

With a pad, he's spreading it gently over your whole face, taking away the depth of your cheekbones and wiping your face into a nearly flat mask, with just your nose disturbing it and casting shadow. Then he's deftly adding a pale pink blush just the color of a newborn's underarm to your face, sculpting in the perfection of your high, arching cheekbones. And then eyeliner, with his hand resting steadily on your nose and fingers gently brushing your skin, setting it on fire; and the eyeshadow and glitter, with small brushes like butterfly wings; the mascara, where you looked up, then down, then right and left; lipliner, with his hand resting now on your chin to keep the lines straight.

And the whole time he's talking, giving you guidelines and tips so that you can learn to do it yourself, but you just want his voice to go on and on, and that light pressure to keep at your face.

Then it's time for the lipstick, red, to be smudged on your lips. He quickly, deftly swipes it across your lips, then uses his finger to gently clear away a couple spots where it moved outside your lips. You savor that pressure, the feeling of his finger against your lips, until he tells you that you're done. You open your eyes into the mirror, and you're amazed.

"I'm prettyÉ" the wondering compliment is out of your mouth before you can stop it, but it's true. Your eyes have been delicately lined, and gold glitter shimmers from the lids. Your cheeks are sculpted perfection, and your lips glow with innocent promise. There's something about knowing that the you in the mirror is also the you in life that emboldens you. Before you can speak though, Ray has laughed, a little jittery.

"Of course you are," he tells you, not looking at you, cleaning his fingers smudged with red and lined with black and gold and pink with a tissue. "Even without the makeup, anyone can see that."

There's a long moment, and you can't quite believe your ears.

You don't want to believe your ears, because what if they're wrong, and he didn't just say that. Then Ray stands, suddenly all business again, and begins collecting the cosmetics and putting them away. And the golden moment of the makeup application, that moment when he'd accidentally spat out something finally! telling is past.

You stand as well, and go to the door, suddenly frightened by what just happened. As you're leaving, you turn back, and speak for just a moment.

"Thanks." He doesn't turn, doesn't acknowledge your statement, and so you leave.


	3. Hot One

Title: Hot One (Part Three of Nancy Boy)

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, and plotlines belong to Todd Haynes, Michael Stipe, and the rest of those crazy kids. The song "Hot One," which is featured in the film is the source of the lyrics. I'm making no money off this (at least, not that I know of), nor do I get credit for any of that stuff. Suing me will accomplish nothing. So there. :P

Author's Notes: From Ray's point of view again.

Warnings: Slash. Men engaging in sexual actitivities together. Yum.

Dedication: for Katy. At last, my queen, this is what you've been waiting for.

***

**well you're the grand wild**

**have you noticed?**

**when you walk in all the fairy boys are pale and nervous**

**well my starship doesn't want me and neither does this world**

**I'm glad I caught you on my view screen, sailor**

He's dancing, his lithe young body undulating in the twirling lights, and you can't take your carefully lined eyes off him. He's glammed up in all of your band's clothing - one of Billy's slinky, sequined shirts, one of Pearl's jackets, shoes donated from Malcolm that make him your height, and your pants, tight against his ass and groin as he twirls and grins, his face tainted purple, then red, then flashing gold.

You grin back at him, lighted by his youthful exuberance, by his bouyance at being out in the world, a feather boa trailing over his jacketed shoulders and onto your's. He's been dancing since you all arrived at the club a couple hours ago, cheerful and full of the music around him. His eyes are spinning as a Brian Slade song comes on, his breathing is heavy with dehydration, and you grab his arm and pull him off the dance floor for a moment. He protests weakly but allows you to pull him through the crush of writhing bodies, away from the bright lights and sweaty heat.

You drag him behind you to the bar and order a pint and a large glass of water, then take him to a high table, secluded in the corner. You more or less force the water on him, but he drinks it all down and, calmed a bit, goes back to the bar to get a pint for himself. You watch him as he goes, watch that perfect round ass in your satin pants, that crop of mahogany hair that's nearly plastered to his skull with the effort of dancing, and sip on the beer, the gentle bitterness of the pint cheering you.

He finally returns, and like a true queen, he holds not a pint but a strawberry daquiri, sipping it from a tiny red straw. You can't help but smile at him as he climbs back into his seat and sips on the drink.

There's a long moment where you can't speak and he's silent, but it's not as awkward as earlier, when he'd appeared in the doorway of your room.

"Hi Arthur," you'd said softly, putting down the glossy magazine you'd been reading, ready for any diversion he could offer. "What is it?" But he hadn't had a reason to come, except that he seemed lonely. Until you'd thought to offer to do his makeup, the two of you had sat in awkward silence, letting the quiet stretch out like twine between sentances - and those were short, the words clipped.

Now it's companionable, almost. Or perhaps it's simply that the noise of the club makes it too loud for talking, but he brushes your shoulder with his own, and the velvet of the coat he's borrowed reminds you of the last time Pearl wore it, with his caramel hair blown back from his face and his candy lips speaking poison.

"Can we go outside?" He asks you, shouting to be heard over whatever's playing now - you don't even know what it is, didn't hear it come on, and don't really care. "It's just so loud in here." You nod, grasp his hand gently in your own - barely realizing the innuendo of the movement as you do it - and lead him through the club.

As you go, Malcolm catches your eye and sends you a broad, glittering wink of good fortune, and you send him a grin back, trying to focus on something besides the electricity of his hand in yours, of the finger curled around the back of your hand, of the thumb gently brushing circles on your skin. You focus instead on little things as you travel through the club - on the swirling of the lights, the weight of your jacket on your shoulders, the proximity of the door.

And then you're outside, and so is he, and the cool air rushes into your pores. You stop for a moment to think, looking up and down the road. It's late, but glitter children still congregate everywhere on the narrow road, huddled together against the cruelty of the wind at their backs. Arthur starts wandering slowly, and you follow - this is his whim after all, not yours. You gently let go of his hand, but - miracle of miracles! - he doesn't let go of yours, keeping his fingers firmly locked in place to stop your hand from falling through. He's still a bit shorter than you, even with four inch heels, and you can see over his head, but when you look down, he's looking at your face.

You smile, slowly, as you walk into the light of a streetlamp. The light casts its glow over his head like the nimbus of an angel in an old Catholic painting. You can almost see the wings rising off his back, and you smile wider.

"What're you grinning at?" His voice is soft, and you realize suddenly that his nerves are threaded through it. With a jolt, it comes to you that he's attracted to you, that he's as scared as you are, that he has no clue the phenomenal beauty his angelic quality lends to him.

"You're an angel. You're magic," you tell him, and a smile slowly makes its way over his face, beginning with the corners of his mouth, then spreading out and upwards, and finally taking residence in the sadness of his puppy dog eyes.

You realize that you've stopped walking, and that he's dropped your hand. Pale and shimmering in the lamplight, he looks down, still smiling. And indeed, in that moment, he is an angel, a beautiful benevolent fairy, resplendent in borrowed glamour and glittering in his natural iridescent beauty.

You reach out one hand, paler than any of his skin, and slowly run it from the edge of his forehead down over one silky soft cheek to cup the edge of his chin.

Your thumb plays over the pillows of his lips, testing their softness and wiping away the vestiges of his lipstick, before you move in and touch his lips with your own in a chaste kiss, afraid to wake the statue. Once, twice your lips meet his, dry and only slighty parted, before you move away and look at him.

His eyes open slowly, and for a moment you think he's angry with you for what you've done, but then you realize he's glowing, he's absolutely delighted, that your alabaster saint has cracked his mold and is grinning at you, fairly shaking in desire, and then he's on top of you, rocking you back into a wall, his lips on yours, his hands on your shoulders, tongue thick in your mouth and tasting of strawberries, and you love it because his energy is so strong, fairly flowing into you.

You move slowly, forcing him into the alleyway, back from the light, where you collapse on a forgotten heap of sacks that no one will want to claim tomorrow. He's forcing your jacket off of you and his is gone, but who knows where it is and will Pearl really care? A million thoughts are jostling through your brain, vying for prevalence and riding the crest of your desire, but you can't stop the think about them because that mouth - oh, that mouth! - has descended on your neck, on the soft skin of the underside of your chin and he's sucking and biting and you can feel yourself losing control as you grab him round the waist and crush his slender body into your own.

He gasps into your mouth as you trail a single finger up his leg to the bulge at the center of his borrowed satin trousers. And then you lean back a moment and murmer, gently in his ear, "Do you want me to stop? I mean, is this too much?"

And you mean it - if he wanted you to, you would force yourself to stop right now, content with just the soft brush of his lips against yours, with the trembling intensity of the last few minutes in the darkened alley, the roughness of the sacks etching itself into your back.

"No, never," he gasps into your ear as his mouth - warm, wet, the tongue tracing its way oh so delicately across your skin - comes down on it. As much as you love the teasing sensation of his tongue on your ear - sending delicate, lacy shivers down your spine - you pull back to look him in the eyes.

His eyes are two bright points of light in the dimness of the alleyway, surrounded by the winking hints of the glitter you spread over his eyelids earlier. You look at him carefully as you speak, wanting your words to have the impact you think is necessary with him, with his fragile innocence.

"Are you certain? I don't want to push you."

His eyes blink, then the shimmering lids drop again as he moves one hand roughly to the zipper on your pants. In response to your question he slides it down slowly, tantalizingly, and you let your hands slip off his shoulder as his mouth goes down as well.


	4. Where is My Mind?

Title: Where is My Mind? (Part Four of Nancy Boy)

Author: mao

Disclaimer: Sing the disclaimer song, everyone! It's not mine, it's not mine. It'll never be mine, oh, it's not mine! Velvet Goldmine characters, likenesses, and plot lines belong to the fabulous Tood Haynes and Michael Stipe. The quote and the title of this part belong to the Pixies, from their song "Where is My Mind?" 

Author's Notes: This's much longer than the other ones because there's a lot to get through from Arthur's perspective here. Hope you don't mind. Also: this was written at work, so it will be re-formatted when I have the chance.

Warnings: Slash (duh, nimrod), mentions of drug use, angst, language, lost innocence, and sexual activity.

Dedication: for Katy, may she continue to shine.

***

**with your feet on the air and your head on the ground**

**try this trick and spin it, yeah**

**your head will collapse**

**and there's nothing in it**

**and you'll ask yourself**

**where is my mind**

You wake up to the sun shining through the window onto your eyelids, prying them open with its harsh rays. There's Ray, wrapped around you as you once wrapped yourself around his pillow, the feel of his flesh hot against your own. His arm is draped across the narrow line of your waist, pulling you close against him, his nearly hairless chest pressed against your back, his breathing soft in the early morning light.

You sit up, slowly delicately disentangling yourself from his embrace, and look down at the street below. People walk back and forth men in ugly suits, women in horrific dresses going to their boring jobs. Your head screams in pain as you remember what you had to drink last night there were a couple pints before you ever left the apartment, a bottle on the way to the club, a double shot of vodka, and the strawberry daquiri, which you can tell now, from your aching head, had more then the usual amount of rum in it.

You turn, glance down at Ray, at the white of his skin against the caramel and straw of his hair, and smile softly. You reach out one hand to brush his cheek baby soft, and the eyeliner has bled down it ever so slightly, creating dark smudges in the hollows under his eyes.

You climb off the bed, pulling the ivory satin and heavy cornflower velvet blankets over his body, averting your eyes self-consciously to his nudity, ignoring that taunting voice in the back of your head, teasing _weren't so shy last night, were you?_

_Shut up_, you tell it. _It was a different time and place and situation and besides, we didn't go all the way._ You could laugh at the silliness of that thought; you know it makes you sound like a girl in the fifties, telling herself that she couldn't possibly be pregnant, but as you head to the bathroom to empty your bladder, you know it's true.

You stop to pick up Ray's robe from where it lies, thick on a chair, and wrap around yourself, taking in the scent of him from his clothes. As you pad softly into the bathroom, you can hear the hushed sound of sleeping breaths all over the flat, the sounds of all the Flaming Creatures fast asleep, Malcolm and Pearl wrapped around each other, Billy's body warm against the girl he brought home the night before, Ray's skin glowing in the light of the sun.

When you've finished, you turn on the shower, unwilling to wash away the night before, but the scent of alcohol clogging your pores. Warm steam fills the bathroom, and you pull the robe off of your skinny body, aware for the first time that you're not a boy anymore; you've filled out in places you never knew you had. Your hips may still be narrow, but as you look at yourself climbing into the shower, it's suddenly clear that physically at least, you're a man now.

The hot water envelopes you, and as the thin fingers of it beat down on you, you find yourself thinking back to last night. It was your first time with another person the bruising kisses, the gentle touchesÉyou find yourself shivering in the heat.

He'd brought you back here, to the place you shared, and into his room. You'd fallen back on the bed, pulling him down on top of yourself, crying out for him like the heroine of a bad romance novel and not caring because you wanted him so much, your eyes were full of tears and your hands uncontrollable.

He'd broken off kissing you and the two of you had helped each other undress, pulling pieces of clothing from each other while gently caressing newly-uncovered skin. But when he'd asked if you'd wanted to, indicating a condom that sat on his dressing table, you'd lost it.

You did want to, you insisted, but you couldn't. Not yet; it was too soon. You'd thought he'd be angry, would kick you out, send you away, make your life difficult, but the words were out before you could even think about them.

Instead, he sucked you off for your first time, and after you climaxed, held you as you fell asleep. As you soap your body and wash your hair, you can't help but remember the touches, the kisses, and the hickey that sits on your neck.

As you step out of the shower, you see it in the mirror, in all its purple and blue glory, a circular, strangely beautiful testament to what happened the night before. As you towel your hair and wrap back up in Ray's housecoat, you find yourself shivering in strange delight.

You're setting the robe gently back on the chair when you feel his lips land softly on your back, at the point where the shoulder meets the neck, and you can feel that shiver run back down your spine. You're dressed now, but when he wraps his arms around you, the muscles loose with sleep, you can feel a powerful twinge in places you'd rarely thought about before you came here.

You turn inside his arms, like a ballerina, and run a hesitant hand down his chest, stopping just above the belly button. He smiles down at you, a benevolent queen eyeing his favorite subject. Then, with a chaste kiss on your forehead, he turns, goes to the closet and begins dressing, casual but flirtatious at the same time. He pulls on a pair of tight pants and a thick jumper before sitting on his unmade bed and patting the place beside him.

Hesitantly, you step over to him, sit down on the thick blankets. He smiles softly, and it occurs to you that he feels shy too. You smile back, feeling awkward after the night before, but not wanting to simply say 'no more'.

"SoÉ" he starts, and you turn, anxious, excited, curious. Ray laughs, and you laugh, and suddenly a little of the tension is gone from the moment, and you're both breathing again. And then you know what to say.

"That was nice." He turns and looks at you, and you suddenly feel the need to expound, as if he doesn't know what you're referring to. "Last night, I mean," you say, laughing a little at the stupidity of that last part.

"Really?" He looks at you from under the curtain of his dark lashes, and you can suddenly see that he's not really that much older than you it's just posturing and makeup; now, with the cosmetics removed and the early-morning vulnerability, you see he's only in his early twenties, still lost himself.

And then the two of you are kissing again, falling back on the bed, and you don't know who started it, if he leaned towards you or you leaned into him or if it was a mutual effort or what, but you're kissing and his hands are carressing your skin under your jumper, and you're nipping at his neck and his earlobes and he's breathing heavy and every nerve ending is on fire, but you're sober this time and you can really feel it when he opens your zipper and helps you out of his pants, and when his hands close down on you, you feel like a little boy all over again, and when you hear that loud knock on the door, you think you might die.

"Hey? Ray? Is Arthur in there? I need to talk to him." It's Malcolm's voice, loud and demanding, and completely innocent. You can feel your entire body go cold as Ray stops, helping yourself tuck back in, and opens the door, discreetly wiping his mouth. Malcolm, true to form, bounces into the room, grabbing your hand, telling Ray he's only "borrowing him for a minute for a cup of tea," with an ostentatious wink, and pulls you out of the room.

When he's brought you in the the kitchen, you put on the kettle, trying to avoid his flirtatious eyes, his knowing glances. Maybe he's not so innocent. Perhaps they all know, you think, putting teabags into two cups and waiting for the water to boil.

This thought, somehow, doesn't upset you quite as much as it might, and you find yourself pleased to pour the water into the cups and turn, handing one to Malcolm and coolly meeting his eyes.

But he's very relaxed about the whole thing, taking his cup, blowing on it, and sitting in one of the rickety chairs. He only says, grinning, "Nice to see you two finally got it together, " before launching into something else he feels you need to know. It's only when he says something about Curt Wild that you feel your brain suddenly click over to hear what he's saying, and you nearly spit out your tea when he says that they've secured you a backstage pass.

"Really?"

"Yeah, of course, man. We all like you, you know. You're kind of ourÉmascot," and he downs the rest of his tea. Billy, who's entered the room during this conversation, smiles and nods at you. You can't help it, but a grin is spreading over your face, and you hug them both before Malcolm bounds out of the room, muttering something about needing fags. Before either of you can ask which kind (the smoking kind or the smoking kind and you know the difference), he's gone and you're alone with Billy.

After Ray, he's your favorite. Soft-spoken, funny, and great to talk to, his eyes flick to the bruise on your neck and you avert your eyes as he winks at you. "Good night?" He teases gently, but with him you can think up a response.

"Nice girl," you tell him, remembering the girl he'd seen leaving earlier from the window, the way her skirt barely covered her bum, the holes in her glittering tights. He grins broadly, pulls down the neck of his shirt to show you the mark she left on him, and you nod your approval, both of you laughing quietly.

You've more or less moved into Ray's room, though you still haven't "fucked" as Pearl put it one drunken evening when the others were out. The two of you sleep every night together, comfortable on the double bed, but close as a couple. You haven't discussed your status with him, but Billy has told you that while Ray was quite promiscuous before, since you came around, it's quite clear that he's stopped seeing anybody else. Malcolm was quick to point out that this is a good thing, and so, you continue blindly down the road, to the Death of Glitter concert.

Every night, he asks if you're ready, and every time you say no he doesn't bring it up again the whole night, but does whatever you ask or let him. His kisses are sweet, his touches always gentle, and even when the two of your find your way into an alley to fool around, he never forgets that you are a beginner, and allows you to call the shots.

But you're at the concert now, his kisses still hot on your cheeks as Curt comes onstage. He's silver and gold, his hair gleaming brighter than a thousand stars and his pants oh, his pants silver, tight, like paint on his skinny legs. He's thrashing around, his eyes hollowed by heroin and eyeliner, deeper-set than they were before. And when he comes offstage, his skin shimmering with sweat and glitter, you can't take your eyes off him.

You follow his hints to the roof, where he sits, drinking a can of some vile American brew.

"Make a wish," he tells you, spilling beer on himself and pointing to the sky, where a flash goes by. You make the wish you know will be granted on the rooftop that night just the same, praying it'll be as idealized as it has been. You talk you know you'll remember every word later on and finally, at long last, he kisses you.

And that's where it all goes wrong. His lips lips you've long fantasized about are harder than you thought, more punishing than Ray's. His waist is too small, too bony, and his hair, though glimmering from the stage, is greasy, heavy against your yearning fingers. He lies on top of you, pulsing, fairly gyrating with enthusiasm, but as you run a hand down his arm, you can feel a fresh track mark where he injected himself earlier. He handles you roughly, and you suddenly find yourself wishing for the familiarity of Ray's body, of the gentility of his touch.

You fool around with him though, letting it go on for nearly an hour, before you pull back and tell him you need to stop. Removed from him, without his clammy skin touching your own, you feel starstruck for a moment, but force yourself to think of the callouses on his hands, the roughness of his touching, and remember Ray.

_Remember Ray_, you tell yourself.

"I'm in love," you realize, and the words are out before you can stop them. Curt smiles lazily, a rock star smile, the smile of a man who's had hundreds of groupies and thinks he knows what'll happen next.

"With who?" He asks, the lazy smile still on his face as you answer.

"My roommate. Ray." And then the smile's gone, but he's not angry, as you might have expected, had you thought ahead. He's intrigued. 

"Ray Flaming Creatures Ray?" It comes out in one breath, and he pops open another can of beer, handing it to you. You sip it, nodding as he opens one for himself. He takes a swig of his own, then smiles; this time it's an honest smile, the smile of a father for a particularly prodigious boy. "For how long?" He asks. He's curious, you realize, and that makes you happy.

"SinceÉforever, I guess. I mean, since I met him," you clarify. "I've only just realized though." He nods, his forehead wrinkled in thought, and you suddenly have to grin at the absurdity of this; sitting on the rooftop with your idol, talking about a man you've just fallen in love with.

"Tell me about him," he requests, and you're happy to oblige.


	5. Special K

Title: Special K (Part Five of Nancy Boy)

Author: mao

Disclaimer: All the characters, likenesses, and original plot lines belong to Todd Haynes, Michael Stipe, and all those fabulous people. The lyrics at the beginning and the title belong to Placebo, from their song of the same name. If you can think of a way for me to make money at this legally, let me know. Otherwise, you know the drill. ;)

Author's Notes: This is short an' sweet. It's a bit cheesy. I do have a sex scene written, but for reasons of rating, I'll leave it off here. If you really want it, email me and I'll get it to you. Otherwise, it's complete. Also: this was written at work, so the formatting's a little weird. It'll get fixed, I promise.

Warnings: Just a touch of language.

Dedication: for Katy, you doss cunt. Je t'aime.

***

**no hesitation, no delay**

**you come on just like special k**

**just like I swallowed half my stash**

**I never ever want to crash**

You headed home alone, fell asleep in the bed that still smelled of him, and tried not to wonder where he's been. You saw him slip off with Curt, but knew better than to follow him. He's an adult, you kept telling yourself, all night.

He can handle himself.

You tossed and turned, looking out into the unseasonably warm night, watching the stars disappear into the gradually fading sky. The black became blue, which bled into pink and gold as the sun came up. You know that you must have slept, because you wake up mid-afternoon, the blankets pulled tight under your chin, Arthur's scent in your nose.

_Don't think about that_, you tell yourself automatically. 

You know what a star like Curt is used to. And you know Arthur, young and inexperienced and (wonderful) innocent, would gladly have given it to him. You can't let yourself be hurt. He'll be hurting, and you need to be strong for him.

_Besides, it's not as if you ever defined to him how you felt._

_Maybe he thinks he's just a piece of ass._

You throw the bedclothes back, shivering in the dropped temperature of the room. You pull your robe on, head for the kitchen. 

He's sitting there with Billy and Malcolm. The three of them have cups of tea and are laughing about something. The moment Arthur sees you, he blushes, turns his head away. He gets up, bustles to the stove still in last night's clothes, you see and gets another mug. He puts a teabag in, then pours water from the kettle on top.

"It's still hot," he tells you, handing you the cup and kissing you on the cheek.

_He's never done that in front of them before._

Unbidden, you can feel a rage building up inside you. It's one thing to go and sleep with Curt you would have been hard-pressed to make a decision like that until a few weeks ago yourself but to treat you this way.

As if things have only gotten better?

Kissing you on the cheek?

You grip the cup tightly, sit at the table with the rest of them. 

Arthur gives you a look, then places his cup gently in the sink and goes off to the bathroom, presumably to shower and clean Curt's scent off himself.

Billy nudges you gently with his elbow, and you take a sip of the tea before realizing it hasn't steeped yet.

"You alright there?"

You try to nod, then give up, shake your head.

"What's wrong?" Malcolm's looking at you with that penetrating gaze of his, and you can feel your mental shields going up. He used to look at you that way right before he'd wipe a smudge of his lipstick off your neck or your thigh or your 

"Thought you'd be delighted," Billy offers.

"Yeah. No more awkwardness, you know?" Malcolm drains his teacup. 

_What the fuck are they talking about?_

You don't realize you've actually said that until they exchange a meaningful kind of glance, then turn back to you. Then, like machine-gun fire.

Malcolm: "He didn't tell you?"

Billy: "Well, I guess he wouldn't would he?"

Malcolm: "Yeah, he did just get home."

Billy: "And he might be a little embarrassed."

Malcolm: "It is an awfully personal thing."

Billy: "I was surprised he told us."

Malcolm: "Well, he was pretty giddy."

Billy: "Completely redefines your relationship, this does."

And you can't take them, their casual banter, the fact that they think you don't know. You saw the expression Curt gave Arthur, from under the heavily-lined lids of his eyes, the knowing gaze as he looked your man up, down, examining.

"Look, I know he fucked Curt, alright?"

They're both looking at you, confused.

"Huh?" Malcolm's slack-jawed confusion explains everything.

_Huh?_

_What does that mean?_

_Uh-oh._

"No he didn't," Billy says after a long, silent, agonizing moment. 

What?

"But I saw them together," you point out, angry. Are they trying to hide this from you? You know what you saw, and there was Curt, Arthur's idol, giving your perfect, innocent (sexy) boy full-force with his bedroom eyes. Hell, before Arthur, you would gladly have disappeared with him.

But not now.

"I saw them go off together. And I didn't say anything becauseÉ" It dawns on you. "I love him.

"I didn't want to upset him. Didn't want to control him," the words come out of your mouth too quickly after the admission, but it seems almost as if Malcolm and Billy didn't hear the last part. Instead, Malcolm is clapping his girlish hands in excitement, and Billy is grinning broadly.

"Really?" Malcolm.

"This is so perfect." Billy.

"What is?" You stare into your tea, unable to look at their delighted faces. And then, suddenly, it's clear.

"He didn't sleep with Curt," it dawns on you. Malcolm is shaking his head.

"Nope. They spent the whole night talking about you." He's grinning, his features all dancing in glee.

"He loves you," Billy says.

And you're down the hall, into your room, where Arthur is dressing. He blanches when he sees you dart into the room, clearly remembering the cool expression you gave him earlier. He pulls a jumper over his head, averts his eyes.

There's no right way to say it. No correct words they're all too flowery or imperfect; too something or other for what you want to say. So instead, you stand in the door, say it simply.

"I love you, too."

He looks at you, his eyes the same pale blue as the sweater, and then he's in your arms, a moving bundle of itchy wool and hot flesh, grinning mouth and darting kisses. You close the door behind you as you land on it with a thump, and then you abandon yourself to the bliss he's finally chosen.

You'll never need another drug again.


End file.
